TWO TRIUMPHS
Fills the scorchèd way with clamour: shouts of people,
Clash of cymbals, rolling of the chariots,
Tramp of feet. The long line winds to sight.
The shouts grow louder and louder,
Exulting cries of a crowd triumphant,
Seeing the train of the captive chiefs,
Dark-skinned and bearded, beads of sweat shining
On fevered brows. Hopelessly, wearily,
With great black melancholy eyes cast down,
Walk fettered Asian maids. But, ah! the splendour of gold
On the car, and the purple robe of the victor aloft,
And his haughty mien, and his eyes. . . .
•••••• Dead, rotten, dead, two thousand years ago.
MIDNIGHT
The night is dark and the place is lone,
The wind is weary and maketh moan,
The dank tree drips on the moss-covered stone,
And the brain is an ash when the spark has flown.
But the horror of Death is an ecstasy,
And the sweetest song is an elegy,
And the loveliest flowers in the world for me
Are the roses which bloom on the cypress-tree.
